


learning to live (like they do)

by V0xB0x



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Other, and how 2 lov, for now its just two not bugs learning how to bug, idk whats going on I dont got plot but maybe I will, im doin my best, this is y first fic ever so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 15:31:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19022761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/V0xB0x/pseuds/V0xB0x
Summary: does pale king is sleep? the rumor come out





	learning to live (like they do)

**Author's Note:**

> does pale king is sleep? the rumor come out

She did not think much of him in the beginning.

If you had asked her what the wyrm was like, her words would not be so fond. 

She doubted he ate or slept - or even breathed. He sighed once, long and heavy and weary, and she deducted that he must breathe, at least.

Certainly, though, he must lack a heart.

They are much alike in that regard, one may suppose - but she handles it much better, somehow. 

He seemed to always be awake. She idly wondered how much sleep he really got (if he even slept at all - she had never seen him do such a thing, but he at least deserved the benefit of the doubt.) Tucked away in a little place she was told to never enter (how rude, really. They are married, after all - what is his should also be hers, but now is not the time for that grievance) the White Lady saw little of the wyrm.

And thus, she spent most of her days alone. Being alone wasn’t bad, as she had been alone for a very, very long time after all. She could handle being alone for the rest of her life, if she must.

But that does not mean it would be a particularly enjoyable existence. What creature would wish to be born, to live, and die, all alone?

The Pale King was more of a statue than a living thing - always seeming far too still and poised to be something that lived. Everything was always perfectly in place, the white of his robes seemingly unstainable, and always pristine. His words were always carefully chosen (she could tell when he was thinking over what to say when he paused for just a little too long) and he seemed to speak to everyone except for her. Truly, they rarely spoke at all.

It was a long time before she saw the first crack.

If she had been any heavier of a sleeper, she may have not woken to the change in weight. She may have slept through the sigh, the grumble, the way he fussed over where to place himself as for both his comfort and, assumedly, her own. When he stops moving, she believes he may have finally found a suitable place to rest, and prepares to return to sleep.

“You are awake, aren’t you? I did not mean to disturb your rest.”

Was this some sort of apology, she wondered? 

“I am a light sleeper. It is not your fault.” They both find themselves whispering, but for what? To save the quiet nature of this moment? To preserve the soft grasp of sleep they had been chasing?

He says nothing else - although his words were carefully chosen, that did not mean there were often very many of them. 

The conversation dies there, and the two drift into a safe, comfortable slumber.

He is long gone by the time she wakes - which is exactly what she had expected.

Surprisingly, she now knows that he does sleep, after all.


End file.
